


Dead Man Walking

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe, Fluff and Angst, Ghosts, Grim Reapers, M/M, cheating death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock is alone when he chokes on a peanut and dies.</p><p>Three minutes later, he wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Man Walking

Matt Murdock is alone when he chokes on a peanut and dies.

 

Three minutes later, he wakes up.

 

“Not the most dignified way to go, I have to say.” A man says nearby, sounding incredibly amused. Matt pushes himself to his feet—how did he get on the floor? He was sitting at his desk just a moment ago. A moment ago, when he couldn’t breathe and he fell and he—

No. He didn’t die. Not possible.

 

“You can’t be here.” He tells the man warily, noting with alarm that his throat is still sore and raspy. “You’re breaking and entering. That’s breaking the law.”

 

“Yeah, that’s happening a lot tonight.” The man drawls. “I, however, just committed a misdemeanor. You just committed a crime against nature.”

 

“What…?” Matt looks around the room. For a second the man doesn’t show up at all on his senses, because Matt’s looking for red and orange and _alive,_ and this man is none of those things.

 

He’s as blue-fire cold as Matt’s father was, the day they put him in the ground.

 

“Hi.” The man says, and to Matt’s annoyance he sees the man’s blue-bright hand lift up in a jaunty little wave.

 

“What the hell are you?” Matt growls, edging towards the man carefully, making sure he doesn’t look threatening. It’s not hard—very few people find a blind man with a mild smile very intimidating. Not until it’s too late.

 

 _“I_ am a Foggy.” The man informs him cheerfully, and Matt gets the distinct impression that he has a smug little grin on his face.

 

“Is that some kind of disease?” Matt asks caustically, and to his surprise the man laughs, sounding delighted.

 

“I _have_ been told I have an infectious personality.” The man says—Foggy, is _Foggy_ actually his name? Who would name their child that? 

 

“I’ll bet.” Matt mutters, and lunges.

 

He trips over his desk chair and has to execute a hasty roll to keep from breaking his neck.

 

He knows he hit the man head-on, but he didn’t even touch him. All he felt was cold and empty air. Cold and blue fire.

 

“At this rate, I won’t even have to _do_ anything. You will _literally_ dig your own grave.” Foggy (Seriously? _Foggy?)_ muses thoughtfully.

 

“Are you saying you’re here to kill me?” Matt snarls, whirling to face him. “Because that might be harder than you think.” Foggy laughs, sounding completely at ease with Matt’s menacing tone.

 

“Of course I’m not here to kill you. I’m here for the after party.” When Matt glares, he elucidates. “You know, the great beyond, choirs of angels—or demons, depending on your political affiliation—follow the white light to your final reward. The after party.”

 

Matt stares at him, unimpressed.

 

“So you’re Death.” He checks flatly, crossing his arms. “You’re Death, and you choose to go by the name ‘Foggy’?”

 

“What’s wrong with ‘Foggy’?” Foggy asks, and he sounds genuinely offended. “Foggy is an awesome name, I will have you know. It’s unique. It’s got character.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Matt agrees, rolling his eyes. “And why would I believe you?” Foggy hums thoughtfully.

 

“I’m a very trustworthy person?” He tries, and Matt snorts. Foggy sighs. “Well, I’m clearly not alive. I know all about your parlor tricks, so I know you can sense that.”

 

Matt tenses, startled. How does this madman know about his powers? Has he been _stalking_ Matt? How would Matt not have noticed that? He notices everything. He’d notice some freak following him. This man isn’t dead—he’s just insane and obsessed.

 

No heat. No heartbeat.

 

“How do I know you’re not using some parlor tricks too?” Matt growls, suspicious.

 

“So what, I sat in a freezer for an hour just to freak you out?” Foggy offers, sounding greatly amused. “I don’t even have a body, which you just demonstrated beautifully with your epic wipeout.” He gestures grandly towards the overturned chair. Blue when he moves in Matt’s vision, just blue, just cold and sound, nothing showing up on Matt’s other senses.

 

“So you’re a dream then.” Matt replies triumphantly. “A nightmare.” Foggy laughs.

 

“There’s more of gravy than of grave about me?” He offers wryly. Matt furrows his brow, a little thrown off.

 

“Christmas Carol?” He murmurs. “I haven’t read that in years.” Foggy hums absently.

 

“Pity. It’s a classic.” He says dreamily. “I loved the Mr. Magoo version.”

 

Matt has never seen the Mr. Magoo version. He’s never even heard of the Mr. Magoo version. How the hell has his dream seen it?

 

He must have heard about it, somewhere. His mind is just filling in the blanks.

 

“I don’t believe you.” Matt says stubbornly, already moving towards his bed. He’ll just close his eyes, and in the morning both the sting in his throat and the man in his room will be gone.

 

“Don’t worry.” Foggy says with rather menacing mildness. “You will.”

 

Matt freezes next to his bed. He turns slowly to face Foggy.

 

“Are you threatening me?” He asks, soft and deadly. Foggy snorts.

 

“Does it matter if I am? I’m just a dream, remember?” He teases, voice coming closer. Matt tenses, ready for a fight, and Foggy tuts. “Jumpy. I was just going to sit on the other bed.”

 

“You can sit?” Matt asks, intrigued despite himself. “You just said you don’t have a body.” Foggy makes a sound of agreement.

 

“Yeah, ish.” He replies easily. “I mean, I have to think about it, but if I try really hard—“ He makes an annoyed sound. “Jesus, these things are uncomfortable. They’re like some kind of medieval torture device.”

 

“Try sleeping on one every night for a year, with an enhanced sense of touch.” Matt deadpans, thinking of his two hellish semesters on this bed. One year down, two more to go. Foggy makes a commiserating sound.

 

“That sucks, man.” He sympathizes. “Sorry.”

 

“Thank you?” Matt asks, because he doesn’t really want this man’s sympathy in particular but it’s nice to vent to someone who actually understands how especially hard it is for Matt. He climbs carefully in bed but remains on top of the covers just in case he has to move and act quickly.

 

“Mm-hmm.” Foggy says absently, and Matt hears the bedsprings squeak as the man moves, judging by the force of the sound and the cold of his body—

 

“Are you seriously jumping on the bed?” Matt asks incredulously, and Foggy laughs, loud and thrilled.

 

“Oh, wow. This is awesome!” He enthuses. “Besides, jumping is the only thing this so-called ‘mattress’ is good for. Sleeping on rocks would be more comfortable.” He hums thoughtfully. “Why do you have an extra bed anyway? You don’t have a roommate, do you? ‘Cause that could be awkward.”

 

“You’re not going to be staying long enough to find out.” Matt mutters to himself, but since this is a dream and it doesn’t matter, “I was supposed to have one, but something happened and he never showed up. I don’t know. They didn’t give me any details. It was pretty sudden.”

 

Foggy stops jumping.

 

“Yeah.” Foggy murmurs quietly, subdued. “How weird. I wonder what happened to him.”

 

“I guess.” Matt frowns, because he’s never really cared what happened to the guy. He’s quite thrilled he never had to meet him, actually. Matt’s not sure he could stand being around the same person all the time, having to act friendly and fragile. 

 

He’s happy about having his own room. He can’t imagine anything different.

 

“Well, no use worrying about it.” Foggy says, all the earlier pensiveness abruptly gone from his voice. “What’s done is done. I guess you’ll want to get to sleep. I’ll just wait around so I can gloat, shall I?” He says it all very quickly, and the cheer in his voice rings a little false.

 

“I’m not going to sleep with you staring at me.” Matt tells him bluntly, and Foggy snorts.

 

“It’s not like you can _see_ me staring at you.” He argues, and Matt scoffs.

 

“I can still tell.” He maintains firmly. “Can’t you just… leave or something? You’ll be gone soon anyway.”

 

“I can’t leave.” Foggy says, and he sounds a little wistful. “I’m afraid I’m stuck with you, at least until you croak.”

 

Matt’s eyes, which he had closed forcefully to try and will himself to sleep, snap open.

 

“ _What?”_

 

Foggy sighs, shifting a little on the bed and making the bare mattress rustle a little.

 

“I can’t leave.” He repeats. “I have to stay close and monitor you until, you know. Part Two. The season finale of the Matt Murdock Show.” Matt shifts in bed so that he can look towards where Foggy is standing on the bed. It might be Matt’s imagination, but he thinks Foggy’s blue might dim a little.

 

“You have to wait around until I _die_ again?” He asks, before hastily adding, “Even though this is just a dream, and I didn’t die at all?”

 

“Yup and nope.” Foggy tells him, popping both ‘P’s. “Yup to the dying, nope to the dream.” Matt gapes incredulously.

 

“But you have no idea when I’m going to die! It could be years from now.” Foggy says nothing. Matt swallows. “You… you _don’t_ know, do you?”

 

“Not… it’s not written in stone.” Foggy says softly. “I don’t know the details any more than you do. You’re right, it could be years from now. But….” He hesitates, shifting again on the bed. “But most people only get a personal reaper assigned when they’re going to need one. Soon.”

 

“So I’m going to die.” Matt says, cold and numb. “You’re telling me I’m going to die, any day. Any _minute._ And there’s nothing I can do?”

 

“I’m so sorry.” Foggy whispers, and his voice is thick with real regret. Matt shudders.

 

“It doesn’t.” He stops, takes a shaky breath. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all a dream.” He’s saying to himself more than to Foggy. Foggy is quiet for a long time.

 

“Yeah.” He agrees slowly. “Okay. Just a dream.” He’s obviously just humoring Matt, but that doesn’t matter because it’s a _dream_ and this is not _happening._

“Good.” Matt says firmly, and rolls over so his back is to Foggy. Matt doesn’t even have to worry about turning his back on him, because Foggy’s just a dream and this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, it will all be gone in the morning. “Good night.” He mutters, because Foggy’s a creation of his mind and it never hurts to be polite to your own mind.

 

Foggy exhales shakily. The bed shifts and shakes and Matt knows Foggy’s sitting down now. He doesn’t move very much at all after that, although Matt hears him taking slow, careful breaths.

 

“Good night, Matt.” Foggy whispers, and he sounds so _sad_ that Matt swallows. “Sweet dreams.”

 

It takes Matt hours to fall asleep. He wakes up in the morning, and his throat is sore and Foggy is cold and crying.

 

* * *

 

Foggy doesn’t go away.

 

Matt doesn’t die.

 

“I told you to pick B.” Foggy tells him earnestly, trailing behind Matt as Matt makes his way back to the dorm. “It’s always B.”

 

“It wasn’t B.” Matt replies absently, under his breath. Enough people have seen him talking to thin air that he’s gone from poor blind bastard to poor blind lunatic, but he doesn’t want to make it any worse than he has to.

 

“Really?” Foggy asks archly. “Because Sandy Greene thought it was B.” Matt rolls his eyes.

 

“Stop cheating off other students’ papers.” He chides, and Foggy huffs childishly. “And do you really trust Sandy Greene’s knowledge over mine?” He’s actually a little hurt. Foggy seems to realize this, because he sighs.

 

“No, Matt. You say it was C, it was C. Even if it _was_ B, I bet you could argue your way to C. Your debate skills are _scary._ It’s like you’re using Jedi mind tricks.”

 

Foggy says things like that a lot, using references and trivia that only a living person could know. No, a person who _was_ living. Something happened to Foggy, something bad. When Matt tries to ask, Foggy always gets quiet and upset, and all he’ll say is that it wasn’t anyone’s fault, it just happened.

 

The only time someone says that it wasn’t someone else’s fault is when it really, really was. Matt’s not sure what he’d do, if he knew who that someone was. It scares him, how angry he gets when he thinks about it. Someone _hurt_ Foggy, and Matt _hates_ them for it.

 

“I can’t help being naturally charming.” Matt says mildly, making sure no hint of his thoughts touches the words.

 

Foggy snorts.

 

“Sure, whatever you say, Murdock.” He drawls, obviously unimpressed. “Hey, we should get coffee.”

 

Getting coffee with Foggy means buying a cup and bringing it to the dorm for Foggy to fondle. Foggy says he can feel heat, and that he can pick up objects when he concentrates very hard, at least for short periods of time. Apparently no one can _see_ Foggy when he does this, and as a result there is a persistent rumor of a coffee-molesting poltergeist on campus.

 

It costs a fair bit of money to do it as often as he does, and the coffee’s tepid and congealed by the time Foggy hands it to him to drink. There is always a thick wonder in Foggy’s voice when he holds the cup. ‘It feels like _sunshine’,_ Foggy tells him. The way Foggy says it is fragile and so joyful it hurts to hear. Every time Matt buys him coffee, Foggy laughs and tells Matt how wonderful he is, how sweet.

 

Matt buys a lot of coffee.

 

“Sure.” Matt agrees, sighing. He can afford another cup of coffee or a hundred.

 

Foggy whoops and rushes ahead, hovering around Matt and chattering the whole time Matt’s ordering. Matt’s gotten very good at keeping a straight face when Foggy tells him horrible jokes and comments about the people around them. People still think he’s crazy, but they think he’s a _sedate_ crazy.

 

“Vanilla, I want vanilla.” Foggy tells him eagerly when they get to the counter, and Matt very carefully does not roll his eyes. Foggy can’t drink the coffee anyway, but he always wants vanilla. He says it smells better, that somehow it feels warmer.

 

“Vanilla.” Matt tells the barista. “Largest one you have.”

 

Foggy cheers.

 

“Wait until we get back.” Matt warns him when Foggy reaches for the cup for the fourth time on the walk back. “It’ll only take a minute.”

 

“Our room’s too far away, Matt.” Foggy groans, but he obeys. Matt can’t help the silly grin on his face.

 

Foggy always says ‘our room’. It _is_ their room, just as much Foggy’s as it is Matt’s. Foggy doesn’t sleep, but he lies down on the bed next to Matt’s every night, and Matt can listen to him breathing. It’s the only way he can fall sleep now. And it hurts a little, because Foggy doesn’t need to breathe—he does it anyway, carefully and clearly, just so that Matt can listen. Because it’s the only way Matt can fall sleep.

 

Matt thinks Foggy would probably make his heart beat for Matt too, if he could.

 

Foggy doesn’t have a heart.

 

“You okay, Matt? You kind of zoned out there for a second.” Matt blinks. Foggy sounds concerned. Matt realizes that he’s stopped walking, and he clears his throat and hurries back the rest of the way to the dorm.

 

“Fine.” Matt assures him. He pushes the door open and lets Foggy drift by. Matt shivers when he feels the cold, tingling sensation that means Foggy’s nearby. It used to unnerve him, but now he looks forward to it. It’s cool and a little refreshing, a unique sensation that Matt can’t get anywhere else. Something new, something interesting. Something _Foggy._

 

 Matt shivers when Foggy’s nearby, and it’s not just because of the cold.

 

“Alright, coffee!” Foggy exclaims happily, gently tugging the cup from Matt’s fingers. Foggy makes a blissful little sound and Matt hears the sloshing of the coffee inside when Foggy tilts the cup this way and that. “You want me to quiz you for your test tomorrow?” Foggy offers kindly, and Matt hears the rustle of a book being flipped open. Matt smiles.

 

Foggy learned Braille for him. It was hard. It’s always hard learning a language, especially one as alien as Braille, but Foggy can’t even feel the bumps unless he focuses, and every moment staying solid is a struggle. Foggy struggles anyway, and Foggy learns.

 

For Matt.

 

“No.” He says, and then frowns, swallowing. “Actually…” He wanders over to his bed, settling down deliberately. He gestures for Foggy to do the same.

 

“Uh-oh.” Foggy mutters, but Matt hears the slight thump of the book closing, and then Foggy sitting down a moment later across from him. “Okay, what’s with the face? You look like you’re going to get a root canal.”

 

Matt gives a forced smile.

 

“Do you know what today is?” He asks quietly. Foggy is silent for a long moment, and Matt hears the coffee again, side to side, in an absent, thoughtful gesture.

 

“It’s the anniversary of the day you didn’t die.” Foggy answers softly. “Two years.” Matt nods.

 

“Two years.” He agrees solemnly. “And…And you won’t tell me _anything._ Not about what you are, why you’re here—“

 

“You know all that!” Foggy protests. “I told you, I’m… I’m the one who helps people when it’s… time to go. And I’m here because…” He stops.

 

“Because it should be my time to go.” Matt finishes gently. “It’s been my time to go for _two years,_ Foggy. Nothing’s happened. I haven’t even gotten a paper cut.”

 

“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing!” Foggy snaps. “I didn’t think you were that eager to shuffle off this mortal coil!”

 

“I’m not!” Matt retorts sharply. “But I’ve spent every day for the last two years assuming that it would be my last. And I’ve been fine, healthier than I’ve ever been before.”

 

“Maybe you’re just lucky.” Foggy offers feebly. Matt laughs, a little desperately.

 

“Foggy, _nothing_ bad has happened to me in two years. That’s not lucky, that’s unnatural.”

 

“So you’re blessed.” Foggy says simply. “Someone out there is watching out for you. That’s good, right?” Matt sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

 

“If someone’s watching out for me, if I’m truly being watched over and kept safe…” He hesitates. “If that’s true, why are you _here,_ Foggy?”

 

He hears Foggy gasp, a horrible, sharp sound.

 

“You don’t… do you not want me here?” Foggy asks, and he sounds so hurt that Matt wishes he’d never said anything.

 

“No, of course I want you here.” Matt assures him quickly, urgently. “I want you here. Just _you,_ just Foggy. Not… not a reaper. Not someone sent to hover over me like a vulture.”

 

“I can’t help what I am, Matt.” Foggy says, and he sounds absolutely devastated. “I hate it, knowing why I’m here. I hate that I don’t know how, or when, or why, but I know that I’m going to… I’m going to lose you.”

 

“But how do you know that?” Matt presses intently. “You said you don’t know the details. Maybe—maybe it was a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have been called—“

 

“You died, Matt.” Foggy says, soft and remote. “I saw the moment your breath stopped. I watched you, _dead,_ for _three minutes_ before you started breathing again. You were dead, okay? So don’t just brush it off like some sort of clerical error!” His voice gets steadily louder and angrier the longer he speaks. “You were dead, and now everything in the universe is telling me that you’re going to be dead again in the near future, and I’m just supposed to stand here and _watch."_

 

He’s breathing heavily, and that’s a reflex, that’s Foggy's mind telling him that he’s out of breath from yelling, even though he has no breath at all. It’s amazing, the tics he retains. Matt wonders how long he’s been…doing his job.

 

Actually…

 

“So, every time you’ve done this before, they’ve died?” He questions carefully. “Every time?”

 

Foggy stays very still and very quiet. His breath has stopped again.

 

“I…” He says finally, small. “I’ve never done this before. You’re my first…you’re my first.”

 

Matt gapes at him.

 

“Never?” He repeats, and Foggy makes a miserable little sound of agreement. “But you’ve been… how long have you been doing this? When did you…”

 

 _When did you die?_ Matt can’t ask, because he doesn’t want it to be real. He doesn’t want Foggy, bright kind Foggy, to be dead. Still with Matt, but dead. Cold.

 

Foggy understands, even though Matt can’t say it.

 

“Three years.” Foggy whispers. “Three years ago.”

 

Matt swallows.

 

“And you spent two of those with me. So you d—you died, a year before I met you?” He hates saying the word. Died. Dead. Cold. Lying in the ground somewhere, alone and dark and everyone Matt loves is in the ground somewhere, aren’t they? No one’s left.

 

“Yes.” Foggy murmurs, sounding absolutely wrecked.

 

And Matt shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t, but he needs to know—

 

“How?”

 

No breathing. No movement at all, for a very long time.

 

“I already told you.” Foggy says, and his voice is distant and sad. “I said it didn’t matter. It was an accident.”

 

“But—“

 

“ _Enough_ , Matt.” Foggy says, voice hard.

 

Matt closes his eyes for a second. He needs to know. Foggy won’t tell him, and that makes it even more important to know. Because Foggy _keeps_ saying accident, he keeps saying it’s no one’s fault, and it _is,_ Matt can feel it. Someone is the reason that Foggy’s dead. That Foggy’s cold.

 

Matt wants to make them cold too, for hurting Foggy.

 

“Okay.” Matt lies. “So if you’ve never done it before, then maybe there’s something we’re missing. Maybe there really _was_ a mistake—not the first time.” Matt amends hastily when Foggy growls. “But after. Maybe you just didn’t get the memo?” It sounds weak even to his own ears, and Foggy laughs, bitter.

 

“You think I didn’t check?” Foggy asks, voice harsh with emotion. “I look every day, every _day_. And every time, your name is right at the top of the list, the list of souls just waiting to be collected. You’re on Death’s _speed dial,_ Matt.”

 

“How is that possible?” Matt asks, terrified at the idea. “Nothing’s gone wrong, I’ve never been in any danger. Why would I still be on the list?” There’s a _list,_ he thinks in horror. There is a list somewhere, and on that list it says that Matt Murdock is supposed to die.

 

“I don’t know, Matt.” Foggy hedges, sighing. “I told you, I’ve never done this before. Maybe there’s something keeping you alive.”

 

“Blessed.” Matt murmurs to himself, remembering Foggy’s words.

 

He’s always been of two minds about his faith. He wants to believe, more than anything, that there is a God, and He is good, and that there is something out there that Matt can fight for. He wants to believe it, but he hears more and more every day, awful things, and it gets harder and harder to believe. Matt still tries though.

 

Matt _tries,_ and maybe someone is finally taking notice.

 

“Well, yeah.” Foggy agrees, and he sounds a little uncomfortable. He’s never been much for religion, even though he’s a piece of the afterlife now. He says he can’t tell Matt anything about the big picture though—‘Spoilers, you don’t even want to _know_ what they’d do to me if I squealed’ _—_ but he’s said time and again that people are the ones who do all the legwork anyway. “You know, or something.”

 

Matt smiles slowly. _Blessed_. That would be…

 

“Maybe that explains why I’ve gotten the internship offer.” Matt says with exaggerated casualness, and he hears Foggy gasp.

 

It had been worth it, he thinks, claiming he needed to take an early shower in order to sneak out to the mailroom. The bathroom’s pretty much the only place Foggy won’t follow him, for privacy reasons, although since he can’t travel very far away from Matt he tends to just hover near the door. It was a little uncomfortable at first, but now Foggy just chatters his way through Matt’s showers too, and it’s nice, the same way some people sing if they’re bathing alone. Pleasant.

 

“I _knew_ it!” Foggy exclaims. “I knew you’d get it, I can’t believe they even made you apply. They should have just tracked you down and given you the job, spared themselves the extra step.”

 

He sounds so incredibly fond and proud that Matt finds himself blushing just a little. Foggy sounds like this a lot, like Matt amazes him and Foggy adores him for it. It’s one of the best things Matt’s ever felt. Intellectually, he knows he’s capable of these things, but when Foggy’s there and telling him how wonderful he is, he finally feels _good_ about being able to do them. Foggy makes them real.

 

“Well, I suppose it worked out.” Matt demurs. “So, if money’s tight we may have to get a one-bedroom apartment. I think I could maybe get a cot or something, and we could take turns on the bed…”

 

“You’re taking me with you?” Foggy asks, sounding stunned, and Matt blinks at him.

 

“Well, I actually _can’t_ leave you behind.” He points out, remembering all of the times he’d tried to ditch Foggy during their early acquaintanceship. Foggy kept turning up like a bad penny—a lucky penny, Matt understands later. “But I wouldn’t, even if I could. You’re my best friend, Foggy.”

 

“That’s…. that’s kind of pathetic, Matt.” Foggy teases, but his voice is thick with what Matt thinks are tears. He can’t taste the salt in the air, but he _knows_ Foggy.

 

Foggy cries a lot, but only when he thinks Matt can’t hear him.

 

“It’s the truth.” Matt tells him, shrugging easily. Foggy sighs, almost a sniffle.

 

“Yeah, you’re my best friend too.” He murmurs, and then, so quiet Matt almost can’t hear it, “Can I try something, please?”

 

He sounds so unsure that it worries Matt a little, but also so hopeful that Matt doesn’t even hesitate before nodding. Foggy sighs shakily.

 

“Okay, tell me… tell me if you don’t like it, okay?” Foggy warns. “I’ll stop.”

 

Now Matt is a little more worried, and he’s about to amend his nod when he feels the icy spearmint sensation of Foggy nearby. He turns his face up to watch the blue of his friend’s form bloom in Matt’s senses, and gasps when he feels something cool brush across his cheek.

 

_Foggy._

 

“How can you—You never told me you could _touch_ me.” Foggy sighs again, moving a little closer, stroking across Matt’s cheek again before trailing a finger up to his temple, pressing past his hairline and Matt can _feel_ it, feel Foggy’s hand carding through his hair.

 

“It’s a little illegal.” Foggy tells him wryly. “Not letter of the law or anything, but we’re not supposed to physically interact with people unless we’re… you know. Helping them _cross the street.”_ He says the last part meaningfully. Matt blinks up at him.

 

“But you’re doing it anyway.” He points out rather inanely, and Foggy laughs.

 

“But I’m doing it anyway.” He agrees, sounding as amazed as Matt does by it. His fingers run back down to run across Matt’s jaw, and Matt cannot contain a shudder of sheer joy.

 

_Foggy’s touching him._

 

“Oh, geez, I’m sorry. I know I’m cold.” Foggy apologizes, already pulling away. Matt reaches up, quick as a viper, and yes, _yes,_ his fingers wrap around _Foggy’s wrist_ and keep him there.

 

“Don’t you dare.” Matt growls, and Foggy makes a startled little sound, but obeys, hand relaxing. “In fact, I want more.” Always more. Matt's greedy, even though Foggy refuses to believe it. When Foggy hesitates, Matt cajoles, “Foggy, I can take the cold. I like it. And I would really, really like to hug my best friend right now.”

 

“Oh.” Foggy says softly, and then he takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

 

Matt yelps when he’s pretty much tackled onto the mattress. Foggy’s arms are around him. He can feel Foggy’s arms, and they’re _around him._

He holds Foggy back, as hard as he can without hurting him. He’s not sure he _can_ hurt Foggy, even in this form, but he doesn’t want to risk it.

 

Foggy’s a little lighter than Matt expected. He’s not sure if that’s a result of Foggy’s altered form or if this is what Foggy would feel like in a human state. Foggy _would_ be warm, as a human. Matt knows it. He would be warm, but now he’s cold, and that’s alright too. It’s summer, hot and blistering, and the dorms don’t have air conditioning. Foggy’s cold skin right now? Heaven.

 

Matt has the distinct feeling that he’ll think it’s Heaven in the dead of winter too, even if it gives him frostbite.

 

Foggy sighs and tucks his head into Matt’s neck. Matt can feel the delicate brush of hair against his skin.

 

“You keep your hair long.” He muses. Foggy nods into his throat.

 

“Yeah. I can’t really get a haircut now anyway, but I’ve always liked it long. It’s sort of fun to play with.”

 

“Can I try?” Matt asks before he can stop himself, and Foggy freezes for a moment. Matt bites his lip, about to apologize and think of something less strange to say, when Foggy says quietly,

 

“Sure. Go ahead, Matt.”

 

Foggy’s hair is light under his fingers, silky. If this is what Foggy’s hair felt like when he was alive, he must have taken very good care of it. It’s long enough that Matt can gather it in his fingers and toy with the strands.

 

“Can I braid it?” Matt asks, and Foggy makes a startled sound.

 

“Braid—you can _braid?”_ He repeats, incredulous. Matt shrugs.

 

“I mean, I understand the theory.” He explains, and Foggy snorts.

 

“The _theory._ I swear you’re a robot sometimes.” Foggy mutters, but he sounds amused. “Okay, go for it. I guess no one will be able to see how ridiculous I look.”

 

“Thank you.” Matt murmurs. He considers, then divides Foggy’s hair and begins.

 

“Seriously?” Foggy moans when Matt starts. _“Pigtail_ braids?” Matt grins at him absently, still working. “I hate you.”

 

“They’ll look nice.” Matt reassures him, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Yeah, because I’ll take fashion advice from a blind man.” He teases, and Matt finishes the braid. He doesn’t have anything to tie it off with, isn’t even sure that something could stay in Foggy’s hair if he tried. He frowns, disappointed. Foggy huffs. “Oh, stop pouting. Here.” He reaches up, batting Matt’s fingers away for a moment before tugging them back.

 

He’s wrapped a piece of hair around, Matt realizes, in an impromptu band.

 

“It feels nice.” Matt offers, stroking a finger along the braid, and Foggy chuckles.

 

“If you say so. You might as well do the other one.” He sounds long-suffering, but he tilts his head into Matt’s touch when Matt reaches out.

 

Matt smiles as he works, because Foggy is cold but Foggy is trying very hard to breathe so that Matt can feel it as well as hear it. Foggy’s too light, but his hair is light too, smooth and soft like silk. Foggy is grumbling about Matt’s work, but Foggy is leaning to make it easier and has his arms tight around Matt’s waist like he never wants to let go.

 

“This feels nice.” Matt says again.

 

He’s not talking about the braid.

 

* * *

 

Matt braids Foggy’s hair a lot, after that first time. It’s always intimate, usually with Foggy sitting back to chest with Matt, or else held close enough that Matt can reach around. He doesn’t always braid. Sometimes he just strokes Foggy’s hair and pretends it’s something he can do all the time, whenever he wants. Foggy gives token protests the first few times, but after a while he asks for Matt to play with his hair even more than Matt does.

 

Foggy asks for Matt to play with his hair by climbing into his lap.

 

It’s very direct, but not entirely good for Matt’s health. Foggy doesn’t even to seem to care that Matt’s still wearing his pajamas, or his coat, or once, memorably, nothing but a towel. He just climbs right in and wraps his arms around Matt’s shoulders, pressing close and cold but so, so right….

 

The problem is, ever since Foggy’s shown Matt he can become solid, even just for a limited amount of time, there’s been some… temptation. It’s a constant struggle not to let Foggy feel just how much _temptation_ Matt feels around him, for Matt to keep calm when Foggy’s touching him. He’s had to resort more than once to thinking very hard about taking the bar exam and mentally reciting penus codes—penal codes, damn it, _penal codes._

 

Matt already knew that Foggy was perfect on the inside, but now he knows how perfect he is on the outside too. Soft skin, cool and smooth as marble. Soft hair that tickles Matt’s throat when he’s holding Foggy. Surprisingly delicate hands that like to trace lines and shapes along Matt’s shoulder blades while Matt’s working. Once or twice Foggy’s been close enough when he smiled that Matt could _feel_ the curve of it against his skin.

 

_Perfect._

 

And Foggy doesn’t need to eat. Foggy doesn’t need to sleep. There’s no reason, no reason at all that he would need to do this. That he’d even want to. If, even if he _did_ want to, that he’d want to do it with Matt. Matt knows that, he does, but then Foggy laughs so happily and climbs into his lap and Matt wonders.

 

He could kiss Foggy. Foggy would be resting against him, waiting for Matt to touch his hair, and Matt would touch him instead, pull him down until they were touching, really touching, tilt Foggy’s chin up and kiss him. He wonders if Foggy’s mouth would be as cold as the rest of him. He wonders if Foggy’s mouth would be wet, or if Matt would have to make it wet for him, lick inside until everything was slick and warm, warm from _Matt._

 

Not just the mouth. Matt could warm up all of him. He could breathe, blow hot little breaths over every inch of Foggy’s skin. Foggy can feel heat, he told Matt that. Foggy could feel the heat of Matt’s mouth, of Matt’s skin. Foggy always sighed when he got his coffee, called it sunshine. Would Matt feel like sunshine, or like something hotter? Would Foggy sigh, or would he moan, moan Matt’s name and cry out and press closer and—

 

“I think you need to leave Landman and Zack.” Foggy tells him quietly. Matt jolts out of his thoughts, and for once he’s grateful that he’s not touching Foggy. Foggy would be able to feel it this time, he’d know what Matt was thinking of, and Matt’s not sure what would happen then. He’s scared to find out.

 

“Why would I leave?” He asks, trying to sound mildly interested instead of desperate and hoarse. Foggy sighs, moving closer.

 

“You hate it there, Matt.” He reminds Matt softly. “And I hate seeing you there.”

 

“It’s a good opportunity.” Matt protests weakly, and Foggy snorts.

 

“It’s a hellhole.” He corrects Matt. Matt stiffens, and Foggy continues urgently. “No, Matt, it is. It makes you miserable. You know they’re crooked. It’s just a matter of time before everyone else knows it too.”

 

“We haven’t found any proof…” Matt tries, but he knows it’s a lost cause. Places like Landman and Zack make his skin crawl on the best of days, and no day at Landman and Zack is the best of days.

 

“They will, Matt.” Foggy informs him softly. “I want you to get out while you still can. You don’t even want to be there. I know you, you want to be out there saving the world, not saving some fat cat a penny or two.” He stops, gives a bitter little laugh. “You already are out there saving the world.”

 

It’s a point of contention between the two of them. Foggy _hates_ Matt’s nocturnal hobbies, the ones he started soon after joining Landman and Zack. He felt the walls closing in on him and he needed to do something, something that actually mattered. He’s always done everything he can to help people, and what he does at night is just an extension of that. A necessary one.

 

Foggy still _hates_ it, and he never stops telling Matt.

 

“What would I even do if I left?” Matt asks, pushing himself to his feet from his desk. “What, just strike out on my own? Do you know how hard it is to run your own firm, Foggy? And I’d be the only lawyer—“

 

“I’d help.” Foggy cuts in eagerly. “Come on, Matt. You know I can. I know everything you know, backwards and forwards, because I was there when you _learned_ it.” Matt shakes his head, and Foggy steps closer until Matt can feel the cold. “You wouldn’t even have to pay me.” He tempts, and Matt laughs, weak but real.

 

“We couldn’t even put your name on the door.” He points out, and Foggy scoffs.

 

“Unlike some people, I am not a diva. I can stand being the silent partner.” He tells Matt crisply. “And we’d be good together.”

 

_So good._

“It would be hard.” Matt warns, but he already feels a little giddy at the thought. Leaving Landman and Zack, going somewhere he could help people, help people with _Foggy_ , just the two of them against the world. Together, the way it should be.

 

“You’d like the challenge.” Foggy accuses warmly. “You love lost causes. So do I, apparently.” He muses, running a gentle hand across Matt’s shoulders. “So, yes? Partners?”

 

Matt shudders at the touch and leans into it a bit too much, swallowing hard.

 

“Partners.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, no.” Foggy murmurs next to him, horrified.

 

Matt tilts his head slightly to the side, their gesture for ‘what’ when there are people around. Karen Paige doesn’t seem to notice, or at least she doesn’t say anything. She’s probably a bit too wrapped up in her own problems to be worried about other people’s strange habits.

 

“Matt, Matt. You need to get her out of here. Somewhere safe.” Foggy tells him urgently, pressing a cold hand to Matt’s shoulder briefly. Foggy sounds terrified.

 

Matt tilts his head slightly the other way. ‘Why?’

 

“Matt, she’s got a _reaper.”_ Foggy whispers.

 

Matt tenses. _Reaper._ He looks more carefully at Karen Paige. She just looks alive to him, red and orange, warm and bright. She sounds a little tired, a little scared, but otherwise healthy. Perfectly healthy.

 

“Would you excuse me for just a moment?” He asks Karen with a polite smile, and when she agrees he barely manages to walk out of the room instead of run.

 

“Reaper.” He hisses to Foggy as soon as they’re alone. “I don’t sense anything.” Foggy shakes his head, only detectable through the shiver of his blue-fire body. No sound of rustling hair or clothing—Foggy’s too upset to be solid right now.

 

“No, you wouldn’t. He’s not there. He’s got a trace on her. He won’t show up until it’s over. Less work that way.” He mutters bitterly. “Lazy bastard.”

 

“You can do that?” Matt asks, surprised. Foggy's always given the impression that he can’t go far from Matt at all, but if this guy can go on vacation during an assignment…

 

“Technically? Yeah.” Foggy admits. “But it’s not like I can pop over to Disneyland. If I’m not here, I’m in the _other place._ Limbo.”

 

He doesn’t talk about where he comes from very often. From what little he tells Matt, it’s gray and stale. Foggy says time moves differently there, that he thought he was gone for less than a day before he was sent to Matt. A year. He’d been dead for a year, and he never knew it.

 

Foggy hates it there. It’s no wonder he chooses to stay with Matt instead. Apparently this isn’t a universal feeling though, if Karen’s reaper is choosing to stay in Limbo even when he has the chance to leave.

 

“That’s good though, right?” Matt asks, pushing away the thought of Foggy waiting in a gray, lonely place for a year without Matt there to help him. He can’t think about it right now—he hates thinking about it, ever. “If he’s not here, it will be easier to save her without him interfering.”

 

Foggy hesitates.

 

“You’re not supposed to stop it, Matt.” He tells Matt quietly. “It’s against the rules.”

 

“Since when have you cared about rules?” Matt snaps. “You touch me every day, which from what you’ve said is just as bad.”

 

He regrets saying it as soon as it leaves his mouth. Foggy’s having doubts, he’s worrying about rules again, and Matt’s just reminded him of the biggest one he’s breaking. What if Foggy changes his mind? And Matt sounded so angry, so accusing.

 

“Please don’t stop.” He blurts out. He hates how desperate he sounds, but he’s not sure he could take it if Foggy stopped touching him. He needs it, just to get through the day.

 

“Hey, no. Not happening.” Foggy assures him, and Matt feels him brushing a strand of hair away from Matt’s face. He leans into the cool touch, shivering like always. He can’t help it—it’s like getting a hit from a drug. He _needs_ it. Foggy sighs. “I suppose breaking one more rule can’t hurt.”

 

He sounds like it really, really can. But Matt needs to do this. He can’t just let Karen Paige die, and he can’t save her without Foggy. Not if there’s a reaper involved. He’s out of his depth.

 

“Okay, good. So, what do we do?” Foggy hesitates, and then sighs again. Defeated. He was hoping Matt would change his mind, Matt realizes. Breaking one more rule might _hurt._

 

They need to do it, Matt tells himself. Just the once.

 

“The knee-jerk reaction is to do everything to avoid it.” Foggy starts slowly. “But in my experience? You wait for the bad stuff to happen, and then you fix it.” Matt swallows, sick.

 

“You mean we have to wait for her to die, and just, what? Hope we can revive her?”

 

Foggy sighs, shakes his head. Matt can hear it this time. Trying hard to stay solid, hand still stroking Matt’s hair, gentle.

 

“No, if her soul leaves her body, it’s the reaper’s. He’ll be the only one who can put it back, and he won’t. So we have to keep her alive, but… but we have to get close.” Foggy sounds a little sick himself. “It’s better to act at the last second, so you don’t trip as many alarms.” He swallows. Matt hears his throat clicking. “And we’ll need an excuse.”

 

“An excuse?” Matt asks, curious.

 

“Yeah. Some vaguely believable reason that you’d be there, that you’d act. That saving them was an…an accident. That you didn’t mean to.” Matt blinks at him.

 

“Does that work?” He wonders. “Wouldn’t everyone know you were lying?” Foggy laughs, a little hysterically.

 

“Oh, absolutely. But they can’t punish you if they can’t prove anything.”

 

“And we can do that. For Karen.” Foggy huffs.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll try, Matt.” He promises. “You just… do what you have to, and I’ll try.”

 

“Thank you.” Matt breathes, reaching up to touch Foggy’s hand. Still in Matt’s hair, so tender. Foggy turns his fingers so that he can catch Matt’s hand, and he squeezes it gently.

 

“Yeah. Anything for you.”

 

Breaking one more rule might hurt him, and he’s doing it anyway. Because Matt asked him to.

 

Matt doesn’t let go of his hand, even when they go back into the interrogation room. It probably looks strange to anyone watching, but he can’t let go.

 

* * *

 

Foggy’s clever. Foggy tries, and Foggy wins.

 

Foggy is gone for three days after they save Karen’s life.

 

“How angry were they?” Matt asks, sitting up in bed when he feels the cold. It wakes him, every time, and he loves it. He sleeps with thick blankets so that he’s warmer, just so he can feel it more, prickling against his skin.

 

Foggy sits down on the bed. Matt’s mattress is the softest he can buy, so it doesn’t squeak, but Matt hears the rustle of Foggy on his silk sheets and even though he’s worried, even though he’s terrified, he can’t help the catch in his breath. Foggy, on his silk sheets. Moving, making them slide and shiver and sigh in Matt’s ears.

 

“It was okay.” Foggy says, and he’s lying. His voice is hoarse and a little shaken. Matt sits up further, reaches out. He could find Foggy’s hand anyway, always, but Foggy moves up into his touch, helps Matt find it even quicker.

 

“What did you say?” Matt asks, and he’s curious as well as scared. Foggy’s brilliant, but there’s no way he was able to pretend he wasn’t involved. How did he come back?

 

Thank god he came back.

 

“That it was the other reaper’s fault. He abandoned his post. It isn’t my fault I’ve got a dumb charge who likes to run headlong into danger.” Foggy says, mechanical. He’s said this before, probably more times than he can remember. “They’re pissed at me, but they're more pissed at him.” He sighs. “It’s okay.”

 

“Thank you.” Matt whispers, and he’ll never be able to say it enough. Foggy chuckles, tired and weak.

 

“No problem.” He tells Matt, even though it was. “How’s Karen?” Matt cannot help but smile a little at the reminder.

 

“Karen’s our new secretary.” He informs Foggy, and he’s a little scared that Foggy will be mad, he won’t want a reminder of his interference, the risk he took.

 

He should have known better. Foggy laughs, and it’s a sound full of joy.

 

“No way!” He enthuses. “She’ll be awesome. That’s amazing, Matt.” He makes a thoughtful sound. “You’re going to have to live on Cup Noodles and martyrdom for a while to pay her salary, until we get more cases, but it’s still amazing.”

 

“Yeah.” Matt agrees softly. Foggy sounds so happy, even though he’s so tired… Matt tugs gently on his hand. “Join me?” He asks, running a hand along the bed where he wants Foggy to lie next to him. Oh god, how he wants it.

 

Foggy doesn’t say anything, just slips down and settles in Matt’s arms. This is strange, Matt thinks. Friends don’t do this, lie in bed together, press a kiss against soft hair and pretend it’s just an accident. Pull each other closer, pretending it’s just to get comfortable. Closer, as close as Matt can get him. Even closer.

 

Foggy never says anything. Matt wonders how long Foggy can do this, stay heavy and soft in Matt’s arms. How long before he’s gone again, only cold air and laughter. All night, Matt hopes. He’ll stay awake all night, as long as he can, until Foggy fades. Then he’ll sleep and dream that Foggy’s still there.

 

Absently, Matt starts to braid Foggy’s hair. Foggy laughs, careful cold breath dancing across Matt’s throat.

 

“I had pigtails when I got called in.” He says, amused. “God, the looks on their faces.” He hesitates, breathes out softly. “They made me take them out.”

 

And it means more than he says, Matt knows. They saw Foggy, and they must have known that Matt did them, Matt touched him. They’re not supposed to touch, another rule broken.

 

“Did they…?” Foggy shakes his head.

 

“I said I did them myself. They didn’t believe me, but they couldn’t do anything either.” Matt pauses in his work, unsure. What if they call Foggy again? What if they can prove something this time? “No, don’t stop.” Foggy murmurs. “It’s okay.”

 

“I don’t want…” Matt swallows. He doesn’t want to get Foggy in trouble. He’s endangered him enough already.

 

“Please, Matt?” Foggy whispers, pleading.

 

Matt keeps braiding. He undoes them when he’s done, does them again. And again, careful fingers lingering until he gives up the pretense, just runs them through as gently as he can. He does it until he falls asleep despite how hard he tries to stay awake. He wakes up, and Foggy is nothing but cold air and laughter.

 

“You’re going to be late.” He tells Matt fondly. Matt smiles. He wonders if he can get Foggy in bed with him every night, stay awake longer. Savor it.

 

Every night.

 

* * *

 

Matt wakes up, and he hears a heartbeat. Too fast, worried.

 

Foggy doesn’t have a heartbeat.

 

He smells perfume and air freshener, mellow but still strong in his nose. He doesn’t know this place. It’s strange, unfamiliar. He remembers passing out, and he’s not where he was before. Someone moved him.

 

Heartbeat. Matt tenses, wondering how fast he can neutralize the threat. He’s hurt. He’ll have to be smart about it.

 

“Matt, no, it’s okay.” Foggy tells him, and Matt feels a cold hand pushing against his chest, pressing him back down. Stiffer than a bed, narrower—couch, cheap, not comfortable. “She’s the good guy. She dragged you out from—geez, Matt, you were in a dumpster. Classy.” He’s teasing, but he sounds shaken.

 

Matt reaches up, grabs Foggy’s hand.

 

“Is your chest alright? Tightness? Shortness of breath?” A brisk female voice asks. The perfume gets closer. “You’ve got some banged up ribs, but it didn’t seem like it hit anything deeper.”

 

“What?” Matt asks, confused. The woman gets closer still.

 

“You’re clutching your chest.” She explains, and Matt blinks. Right. Foggy’s not there, not to anyone else.

 

“Fine.” Matt says, and he knows he sounds too tense and terse, but he doesn’t know this place, doesn’t know this woman, and even if Foggy says she’s okay Foggy’s dumb about people, he’s too trusting. Naïve. Luckily, Matt’s paranoid enough for both of them. “Sorry. Can I ask what happened?”

 

“If you’re sure your chest is okay…” The woman says hesitantly, and she starts to speak.

 

Matt’s messed up, worse than he thought he was, but he’ll be okay. Nothing permanent. As she details his injuries, Foggy interjects with sharp commentary, presented as jokes but pointed. He was worried, Matt thinks. Scared. How long was Foggy watching Matt, bleeding and too still?

 

“Honestly.” The woman—Claire—is saying. “Not to be a pessimist, but you _should_ be dead. You’re lucky I found you.”

 

“How _did_ you find me?” Matt asks, because he can’t think about the dead part. God, Foggy must have been terrified. Almost dead. Foggy almost had to do his _job._

 

“I’m not…I’m not sure.” Claire says thoughtfully. “I just… I felt like taking a walk. It was cold in my apartment. I guess I wanted to get my blood flowing, warm up.”

 

Matt swallows. Foggy clears his throat awkwardly.

 

Cold. It’s maybe eighty degrees out, and Claire was _cold._ Foggy’s hand is icy in Matt’s.

 

Foggy broke the rules again. For Matt. Again. How is he going to explain this one? Matt thinks, horrified. There’s no way he can explain this one away.

 

“It’s okay.” Foggy tells him softly, like he can read Matt’s mind. “You weren’t quite dead. I was just… taking a stroll, killing time until it was _killing_ time. It’s okay.”

 

 _It’s okay._ Foggy said that last time, and Matt believes it even less than he did before. Foggy cheated. Foggy keeps cheating, and he’s good but there’s only so much fast-talking he can do. One day it won’t be enough.

 

You can’t cheat death forever.

 

* * *

 

Foggy happens to want a hug right when the bombs hit. He stops Matt behind a wall, thick concrete, and Matt barely gets bruised.

 

The cops miss when one tries to take a shot, because Matt trips. There’s nothing to trip on.

 

Matt lands away from the broken glass and sharp splinters and metal framing, when he falls. He hits something on the way down, something soft where nothing else is, and he moves just an inch to the left and avoids impaling himself on one of the twisted metal supports knocked loose in the fall.

 

Matt walks away from the abandoned building, walks home, and he’s got barely a scratch on him.

 

“You can’t keep doing this.” He tells Foggy hoarsely. Foggy is quiet next to him, but he keeps brushing up against Matt like he needs to be sure he’s still there. “Please.”

 

“You could stop too.” Foggy murmurs, and there’s a wealth of bitterness in his voice. “Stop risking your life like this, doing what no one asks you to do. You could stop, but you won’t. So neither will I.”

 

“What happens to you, if they prove what you’re doing for me?” Matt asks, feeling ill. Foggy doesn’t speak for a very long time.

 

“Nothing.” He says quietly, dully, and Matt makes a surprised sound. “No, I don’t mean they don’t do anything, I mean they do everything. They do everything, and they make me… nothing.” He laughs harshly. “This is my afterlife, Matt. There’s nothing after the after.”

 

Matt can’t breathe.

 

“They… they just… You’d be…” He can’t even say it. Foggy laughs again, and it’s a _terrible_ sound.

 

“Poof. Hey presto, gone in a flash.” He agrees starkly, then sighs. “Don’t worry, Matt. I’m careful.”

 

“You _have_ to _stop_.” Matt gasps, grasping at Foggy’s shoulder.

 

His hand goes through. Cold, nothing there. Already nothing there. Too late? Did they find out already? Matt gasps again, and then again. He can’t _breathe._

 

“Whoa, hey. It’s okay. You just took me by surprise.” Foggy tells him, alarmed. “Matt, I’m right here.”

 

Cold again, but solid, real. Pulling Matt in, careful, deliberate breathing so Matt can be sure. He shudders and pulls Foggy closer. Matt’s teeth are chattering, but it’s not from the cold.

 

“Come on. Bedtime.” Foggy tells him kindly, and Matt doesn’t realize how tired he is until Foggy’s tugging the blankets over his shoulders, tucking himself right in next to Matt. Matt doesn’t let go the whole time Foggy’s working, and as soon as they’re under the covers he pulls Foggy close again.

 

“Please.” He begs, and there are tears in his eyes and in his voice. “Stop saving me.”

 

Foggy makes a little sound, and it’s more sob than sigh. He shakes his head, lips brushing against Matt’s throat. When he speaks, Matt can _feel_ it against his skin.

 

“Stop dying.”

 

* * *

 

Foggy’s humming in the kitchen, some silly little jingle Matt remembers from TV. It’s off-tune and awkward and _perfect._ Matt hears the clicks and clanks of dishes, the sizzle of bacon.

 

Foggy likes to make Matt breakfast. Foggy can’t eat it, but he likes the act of preparing the food, the appreciative, exaggerated noises Matt makes when he eats it. He looks up recipes, he practices. Matt’s got more cookbooks than he can count, even though he can barely boil water.

 

Matt rolls over in bed, and yes, yes, Foggy’s half is still cold, colder than the room. Foggy was here, lying next to Matt, maybe watching him sleep, maybe just reading or humming to give Matt sweet dreams. Matt shudders and pushes a little more into the mattress.

 

Pillow still cool, soft with silk and the slightest tingle of Foggy’s presence. And he shouldn’t. Foggy’s right _there,_ a few yards away, but Foggy _is_ right there, and Matt can hear him, humming and happy, and he can _feel_ him here, lingering. He has them both, and he can pretend he has them together.

 

He pushes just a little more, just with his hips. Cool, the mattress gives a little under his weight, and he wonders what Foggy would feel like under him instead. He’d be firmer, but still soft in all the right ways. Chilled against Matt’s sleep-warm skin, refreshing and lovely. Foggy would push up against him, run a soothing finger down Matt’s back, leaving a trail of icy relief in its wake.

 

And Matt would kiss him and touch back, let Foggy feel the warmth everywhere he could, anywhere Matt could give it to him. Foggy can feel heat—could he feel it inside, too? If Matt pressed inside, careful, slow, savoring it, would Foggy arch against him and gasp? Pull him closer, deeper, whimper into Matt’s ear? He’d be breathing, panting—Foggy still gasps and sighs when he feels it, memory and instinct, and he’d _feel_ it, Matt would _make_ him feel it.

 

Foggy _would_ gasp and pant out Matt’s name, pleas, prayers. Matt would taste them all, and he’d stay there inside, hold Foggy there until Foggy’s skin was hot, finally hot with _Matt’s_ heat. And he’d keep Foggy warm, after. Hold Foggy in his arms, kiss anywhere the cold crept back in, lick the ice away.

 

Matt sobs, and his hand is too _rough,_ too _hot._ Not right at all, but good enough. He comes, and he has to bite the pillow to hide the desperate sound he makes.

 

Sunshine, Foggy had said. 

 

Matt could give him summer.

 

* * *

 

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a guardian angel.” Matt forces himself not to tense.

 

“I never took you for the religious type.” He says mildly. Stick laughs, harsh.

 

“You _know_ you’ve got yourself a guardian angel.” He says the title derisively. “Interesting. They’re not supposed to do that. They should just a be a cold spot to you.”

 

“Oh?” Matt says vaguely. “If you’re cold, I can turn up the thermostat.” Stick chuckles again.

 

“Bullshit.” Stick tells him bluntly. “I can see him as clear as you can. Man, by the frame. He’s friendly, isn’t he? Standing real close.” Foggy swallows and takes a step back. “Nah, don’t be shy.” Stick says, and he’s not talking to Matt. “We’re all friends here.”

 

“We’re not friends, asshole.” Foggy mutters, and Matt twitches. _Don’t antagonize him,_ Matt pleads in his mind. “Don’t worry. He can’t hear me. You’re the only one who can. I do show up cold though. It makes sense he could sense me, as creepy as that is.”

 

“You’re quiet.” Stick drawls. “What’s he saying?” Matt glares.

 

“That you’re not friends, asshole.” He parrots dutifully. Foggy gives a choked laugh, and to Matt’s surprise, Stick makes an amused sound.

 

“Spitfire.” He muses. “They’re not supposed to do that either. Emote.” He says when Matt doesn’t answer. “Your boy’s breaking quite a few rules, isn’t he?”

 

Matt can’t help but freeze this time. So many rules. He hates them.

 

“I sort of want to hit him. Are you attached to your chair, or would you mind letting me breaking it over his head?” Foggy asks absently. “It’s an ugly chair, just saying.”

 

Matt supposes there’s no much point pretending.

 

“No.” He murmurs firmly to Foggy. Stick snorts.

 

“Fighter, too.” He says, like he knows exactly what Foggy was asking. He _can’t_ hear Foggy, can he? “How long have you two known each other, to be chattering away like that?”

 

“Not long.” Matt lies. Stick scoffs.

 

“Years, I’d bet. That’s actually impressive, Matty. You’ve had a reaper on your back for years, and you’ve turned him into a pet.”

 

“He’s. Not. A. Pet.” Matt hisses. It’s a mistake, giving too much away, but Matt can’t help it. Stick knows where Foggy is, what he is, and he’s one of the only people in the world who Matt thinks might know how to touch Foggy too. Hurt him.

 

“That’s sweet.” Stick drawls. “Are you his guardian angel too? You’re awfully protective.” Matt sets his jaw and says nothing. “You just lucky, or is your angel stepping in?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer. “Oh, Matty, Matty. That’s trouble. You’ve gone and got yourself some literal dead weight.”

 

“Fucking _asshole._ ” Foggy spits. “That’s it. We can buy a new chair.”

 

 _“No.”_ Matt almost says ‘No, _Foggy’,_ but Stick doesn’t get to know Foggy’s name. No one but Matt gets to know Foggy’s name. “Stick is leaving. Now.”

 

Stick chuckles.

 

“Actually, you’ll be leaving with me. We’ve got a mission.” He says casually, and Matt shakes his head.

 

“I don’t work for you, and I don’t work with you.” He snaps. “If there’s a problem in our— _my_ city, I’ll handle it.” Damn it, stupid slip and he knows Stick hears it. _Stupid._

“You’re in too deep, Matty.” Stick tells him, and for once he doesn’t say it like a lecture. He’s quiet, serious. “And your angel is too. How many times you beaten the system with his help? It’s not going to end well.”

 

“It’s working alright so far.” Matt says coldly. Stick sighs.

 

“If you say so. Let me tell you what we’re going to do.”

 

And Matt’s not going to say yes. Foggy’s telling him the whole time, ‘say no, Matt, this guy’s trouble, you know he is’. And Matt knows it’s true, he knows.

 

He says yes anyway. Stick lets him say yes, and it’s only as they’re leaving that Stick mutters to him, soft and sure,

 

“Idiot.”

 

There’s a fight. There’s a heartbeat, light and quick—a child. Foggy moves a box to make a man stumble, a man with a gun. Matt might have been able to dodge but judging by the fact Foggy stepped in, he _wouldn’t_ have.

 

Stick betrays him—as usual, Matt can’t trust him for a second without Stick screwing him over. They fight, and Foggy actually does throw the chair at Stick. Stick slinks off with barely a murmured, sarcastic thank you, but before he goes, he grabs Matt’s shoulder and hisses again,

 

“Idiot.” He shifts a little. “You’re both fucking _idiots._ You can’t be his guardian angel forever. _”_

Foggy doesn’t answer.

 

* * *

 

Matt bleeds, the blinding pain pulsing through him. Too much blood, he can smell it coppery and sharp in the air, and he feels dizzy and dull. Foggy helps him limp home, practically carries him.

 

Foggy’s crying, begging Matt to hold on, please, _please_ don’t do this. Matt knows there is no way around this one, no fancy loopholes or tricks that Foggy can pull. Matt is dying. He is already more than halfway there. Foggy pushed and pulled and yelled, broke a new law every second, and it wasn’t enough. Matt wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough.

 

Foggy holds his hand at the end, and he’s sobbing and Matt can almost taste the salt even though he knows it isn’t there. It might be the salt of Matt’s blood instead, thick in his mouth. He doesn’t know, is afraid to ask.

 

“Please.” Foggy whispers, holding Matt’s hand hard enough to hurt. He washes Matt’s wounds, wraps bandages around him, too late, a desperate gesture to catch blood already spilled. Matt tells him to stop, but Foggy pushes his hands away and doesn’t stop until every cut, every drop of blood is cleaned and covered. Like if he can’t see it, it will go away. “Please don’t leave me alone here.”

 

“You can lead me.” Matt comforts him, weak, begging. “You can go with me, right? We’ll stay together.”

 

Foggy sobs again.

 

“You’re good, Matt. You’re so _good_. There’s only one place you can go, and it’s not with me.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Matt shakes his head, desperate.

 

“No.” He whispers, panicked. “No, I get a choice, right? I want to go with you.”

 

“Matt…” Foggy says, and he doesn’t say no but Matt hears it anyway. “That’s not the way it works.”

 

“Please?” Matt pleads, and it’s not fair but Foggy’s so smart, he’s saved Matt so many times. Every day. He can do it again, right? One last time.

 

“I can’t…” Foggy gasps out, and Matt tries to sit up, but Foggy pushes him back down. “Don’t. It’ll just make it faster.”

 

“Don’t let me go.” Matt begs. “Please. Breaking…breaking one more rule can’t hurt. Right?” He knows how pathetic he sounds, voice cracking. Again, always asking Foggy to break rules for him when Matt doesn’t deserve it.

 

And Foggy always does. He always does, touches Matt soft and gentle just like this, and he whispers, always, every time. He whispers now like he’s done a hundred times, and it’s never true.

 

“Okay.” Matt feels a brush of lips across his own, gossamer soft and sweet. Matt’s even colder than Foggy is, now—the touch is hot on his skin, almost burning. Matt shivers and tries to push up into it, but he can’t quite make his body move. He’s so heavy, so cold. “Okay, Matt. It’s okay.”

 

It’s not okay.

 

* * *

 

Matt Murdock is not alone when he chokes on his own blood and dies.

 

Three minutes later, he wakes up.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I have to say I don’t see what all the fuss is about.” A woman drawls, lazy and amused. “You’re pathetically plain.”

 

“Foggy?” Matt whispers. It’s icy, not a single flash of red or orange in his senses, all blue and purple and cold. It’s too cold, burning cold in a way that Foggy never was. It stings on Matt’s skin like frostbite. It hurts.

 

It’s the only thing that hurts.

 

Matt moves carefully up into a sitting position. He’s still on his bed, but he can’t smell blood anymore. There’s only the light scent of the fabric softener that Foggy likes, the lingering aroma of the coffee Foggy cooed over this morning, the faint smell of salty sex, only Matt’s and tinged with bitter, furtive guilt and desperate love, and Foggy never knew, can never know.

 

“Foggy.” He murmurs again, running a hand over the bandages on his chest, the ones Foggy put there.

 

They’re dry as a bone, crisp and clean. No blood.

 

“Foggy Bear’s having a nice long nap.” The woman says coolly. “After all, you’ve been running him quite ragged, haven’t you?” And she still sounds amused, but there’s a slight edge to it now. Irritated, almost angry.

 

“A nap?” Matt repeats incredulously. “He doesn’t sleep.”

 

“No. He can’t sleep.” The woman agrees easily. “But you’ll find he can rest. In peace.” There’s a menacing lilt to her voice.

 

No. No, no, no.

 

“What did you do to him?” Matt asks, furious. “Who are you?”

 

The woman laughs.

 

“I’m his boss, honey. I doubt you could pronounce my real name, so you can just call me Marci.” She purrs silkily. “And I did what I had to. Foggy Bear’s broken quite a few rules—he needed to be punished.”

 

 _They do everything, and they make me nothing._ Marci’s Foggy’s ‘boss’—Marci’s the ‘they’.

“Give him back.” Matt orders dully, and Marci makes a derisive sound.

 

“Why?” She asks archly. “So you can keep crooking your finger and making him jump through hoops for you?” Matt flinches.

 

“I would never—“

 

_Breaking one more rule can’t hurt, right?_

He shudders, and Marci clicks her tongue.

 

“Mm-hmm.” She says lightly. “That’s what I thought. And he’s very good at jumping, isn’t he? Our Foggy.” She laughs. “Oh, the tricks he’s done. You’ve trained him well—he’s a puppy for you. So eager to please, unconditional in his love.”

 

“Stop.” Matt growls, and he goes to strike her, because Matt Murdock has no problem hitting a girl when the girl has it coming. He can’t move his arms. He can’t move his legs either, frozen like a statue. Frozen like ice.

 

“Temper, temper.” Marci muses, entertained. “Foggy Bear didn’t mention that. Made you out to be a saint, actually. Practically perfect in every way.”

 

“Stop.” Matt tells her again, harsh, and Marci ignores him.

 

“But then, he’s always been a bit… _blind,_ when it comes to you. Since day one.” She sighs. “He picked you, you know. He _begged me,_ gave up his place. He wasn’t supposed to go to Limbo, but he _begged me.”_ She giggles. “And he was so _cute._ How could I say no? I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for him.”

 

“He asked?” Matt asks, confused. It was random, Foggy told him that reapers don’t get to choose. _Choose,_ Matt thinks. Foggy had said choose. He’d never said reapers couldn’t ask. “He didn’t even know me.”

 

“Wrong.” Marci informs him, a wealth of slyness in her voice. “You only met him once before he died, but you made _quite_ an impression.” She laughs. “But you don’t remember, do you?”

 

“I never met him.” Matt tells her, sure. “I’d _remember.”_ There’s no way, no way he could have met someone like Foggy and not _known,_ known that Foggy was special, that he was _everything._

“Apparently not.” Marci tells him dryly. “I suppose it makes sense. You were a bit distracted.” Matt shakes his head, sure she’s lying, and Marci continues, voice knowing. “Do you remember the robbery, back when you were just a baby lawyer, about…hmm, a week before term started? You went out to celebrate, and there was a man with a gun. You were _very_ brave. Stood right up and told the man to leave. You were quite stupid then, weren’t you?” She muses.

 

“Are you saying Foggy was the robber?” Matt asks, disbelieving. The man was ugly, Matt could tell. Large and awkward and mean, nothing like Foggy at all. Marci laughs.

 

“ _Still_ stupid, I see.” She says snidely. “The man panicked, and he fired off a shot. Just the one, and he ran. You dodged, slipped nice and tidy out of the way, and you ran after him. Always so dramatic, picking the dangerous path, the flashy one.”

 

“How did you know that?” Matt whispers, struck. Marci giggles again.

 

“Oh, honey. I know _everything.”_ She tells him, and it’s unkind. “For example, I _know_ you never thought twice about the body hitting the floor.”

 

Matt remembers. The blood was pounding in his ears and he was angry, so angry. He ran the man down and beat him bloody. He _was_ stupid then, volatile and too vicious. Too much of the Devil in him.

 

He remembers the body hitting the floor. Someone behind him, hit when Matt dodged. Heart still beating, he’d thought as he ran. Still alive, room full of people with cellphones and time. Easy, Matt had thought—they’ll call for help and the man will be fine.

 

Not as important as catching the man who did it. No one could do that but Matt—dozens of people could call an ambulance. Problem, but not Matt’s problem.

 

He remembers the body hitting the floor.

 

“You know what the funniest part is?” Marci asks conversationally, and she doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s very funny at all. “You’re the reason he was standing there.” She snorts. “He’d been trying for ages to get up the courage to talk to you. Love at first sight, he told me. Very sweet.” She coos mockingly.

 

Vanilla coffee. There had been a man behind him drinking vanilla coffee, sitting and standing awkwardly like he wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to go. Heart beating like crazy, and Matt had wondered absently how he was going to say no when the man asked to buy him a drink.

 

Vanilla coffee. _It feels like sunshine._

 

“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame.” Marci sings, light and cruel. “You give love a bad name.”

 

 _It was an accident,_ Matt remembers Foggy saying. _It wasn’t anyone’s fault._

Matt dodged. The man behind him didn’t.

 

Foggy didn’t.

 

“You said he chose me.” Matt whispers, and a horrible, horrible thought comes to him. “Did he want to see me…”

 

_See me die? Let me die, the way I let him die?_

“Oh, hon. Dumb as a stump, aren’t you?” Marci chuckles. “That was the first time he cheated. I remember, he came to me after you fell asleep, wide-eyed and meek as a mouse. Said he’d nudged you, just to make sure you were dead, and what do you know? That nudge just happened to clear your airway. Of course, that didn’t mean you were alive. He had to check again. By compressing your chest about thirty times. And then, well, how could he tell if you were breathing unless he checked—and of course he had to use his mouth, didn’t he? Two quick breaths. He’d never even tried breathing before—I didn’t know he _could.”_ She sounds a little impressed. “Again and again—well, he had to be sure, didn’t he?” She snorts. “And what a surprise, you weren’t dead! What a shame, he’d have to stick around and keep trying.”

 

“He—“ Matt swallows. “He saved me.”

 

“I wonder how many times you noticed.” Marci muses. “He was quite careful, covered his tracks. Such a clever little mouse.”

 

 _Blessed._ He remembers Foggy saying. _I don’t know, Matt. Maybe something’s keeping you alive._

 

“How many times were there?” Matt asks, hoarse. Marci laughs.

 

“Oh, hundreds.” She tells him casually. “It’s become something of a game for me. It’s fun, to see what he’ll do. _Such_ a clever little mouse.” She murmurs again, and there’s a note of genuine appreciation in her voice. “And he’s won our little game, every time.”

 

“Until now.” Matt finishes. He died, he knows he died. Marci hums thoughtfully.

 

“No trick for this one.” She agrees. “He didn’t even try being sneaky. No time. He just—“ She snaps her fingers. “Poof! Put it all back in, every drop of blood and every bit of breath. Had to steal some of my power to do it. _Very_ naughty.”

 

_You’re not supposed to stop it, Matt. It’s against the rules._

 

“He’s gone.” Matt whispers, and it’s empty. No careful breathing—Marci doesn’t care enough to try. No tingle of pleasant coolness on his skin, just ice and aching.

 

“Hmm.” Marci says, and it’s a thoughtful sound. “He should be, yes.”

 

And there’s something in the way she says it…

 

“He’s not.” Matt breathes, and the hope is almost more painful than the loss. “He’s not, is he?”

 

Marci is quiet for a long moment, and then she huffs. It’s frustrated and amused in equal measure.

 

“Foggy Bear always was my favorite.” She admits. “But he is a _horrible_ reaper. He couldn’t manage to steal one measly soul.” She snorts. “I had to fire him—he’s bad for business.” She chuckles. “But I can’t send him onwards, because he shut that door—slammed it, really. I can’t send him back either—he’s been mine for too long, there’s nowhere for him to go. But…”

 

“But?” Matt asks warily. Marci stands—Matt hears the crackle of dead leaves and the scraping of a funeral shroud across the ground when she moves.

 

“But he _is_ my favorite.” She repeats, fond and knowing. “So I gave him a new job instead. I think he’ll be much better at it.” She giggles and Matt hears her—not walking away, fading. Soft sound like spider webs swaying in the wind on a Halloween night. “Friendly warning, Murdock?” She says sweetly. “If you hurt him, I will kill you. Then I will bring you back to life, and I will kill you again. That’s _not_ an exaggeration.”

 

Matt nods, eyes wide. He hears Death in her voice for the first time.

 

“Can… can I have him back now?” He asks, and his voice is small and desperate. Marci snorts.

 

“Pathetic.” There is a crackle of energy, cold and sharp. “You two deserve each other.”

 

A crack like lightning hitting a twisted, dead tree, and the cold is gone.

 

No. No, it’s still cold, but he _knows_ this cold, knows it’s special, knows it’s _everything._

 

“Hi.” Foggy says, and Matt can hear the smile in his voice. Wide, bright, so happy it hurts.

“You’re chillier than normal.” Matt murmurs to him, pulling Foggy into his arms. Foggy doesn’t seem to mind, laughing and kissing him, quick and light.

 

“Yeah, Limbo tends to do that. It’s an icebox down there. I should warm up in a bit. Is that okay?” He asks. Matt thinks of his many, _many_ fantasies involving warming Foggy up, slow and sweet, and he thinks his voice is only a little too hoarse when he whispers back,

 

“Okay.”

 

Foggy laughs again and kisses him. Wet, slow. Matt makes a surprised sound, pulling back.

 

“I can taste you.” He whispers, stunned. Foggy tastes a bit like the first snowfall of winter, when the snowflakes are cold but melt sweet on your tongue.

 

Foggy makes an awkward little sound, clearing his throat.

 

“Uh, yeah.” He mutters, sounding supremely sheepish. “Marci—Marci made some…upgrades. I still can’t—you know, heartbeat. But she tweaked… stuff. She didn’t say what, exactly, but I can guess.” He clears his throat again. “Marci’s sort of a pervert. So, fair warning.”

 

Matt’s not sure if he wants to slap Marci for even thinking about Foggy in that way, or kiss her for it.

 

He settles for kissing Foggy instead.

 

* * *

 

Foggy warms beautifully, under Matt’s fingers.

 

“Jesus, you’re hot.” Foggy mumbles when Matt’s carefully pressing a finger inside of him. “And I mean that in _every_ possible way.”

 

“Thank you.” Matt tells him, pleased. He strokes Foggy a little more firmly in reward. Foggy gasps and arches into it. “That’s a good thing, right?” Foggy snorts.

 

“Don’t be coy.” He chides, a little breathlessly. “You _know_ I have a thing about heat.” Matt thinks of all the cups of coffee he’s bought for Foggy, and nods the point. Hot and cold. They work well together.

 

“Good.” Matt says again, cheerfully.

 

“God, you’re a smug bastard.” Foggy grumbles, and yanks lightly on Matt’s hair. “Another.” He orders, bucking gently. Matt nods, gingerly slipping in another finger.

 

“You’re so tight.” He murmurs wonderingly, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while.” He points out wryly. “But I’m pretty sure I remember the basic idea. _Another.”_ Matt shakes his head, gently scissoring the two inside and stroking Foggy more a little more quickly to make up for it.

 

“We have to be careful.” Matt argues. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“You think very highly of yourself.” Foggy tells him, dry. “Although…” He reaches down, soft and gentle, and Matt gasps. “I suppose you have a pretty good reason.”

 

“Mm-hmm.” Matt says, a little strangled, and when Foggy laughs a little wickedly and twists his hand, Matt hurries to add another finger. He’s not going to last very long, at this rate, and he _needs_ to be inside Foggy when he comes.

 

“There we go.” Foggy murmurs, victorious. “You’re too easy.” Matt’s fingers still. “No, no, keep going!” Foggy complains a little desperately, thrusting down onto them to get them deeper. “Matt, don’t be a brat. Come on. _Please_?”

 

Matt kisses him, smirking, and begins stretching him again.

 

“You’re too easy.” He teases, and Foggy bites Matt’s lip in retaliation.

 

“Asshole.” He mutters, but it’s fond. “Okay, that’s good.” He says, swiveling his hips. “Go, I’m ready.”

 

“It’s not a race.” Matt mumbles against his mouth amused. Foggy groans.

 

“No, slow later.” He promises. “I need fast right now.” Matt shakes his head.

 

“Slow.” He says firmly. “This one’s special. We only get one.” Foggy huffs, exasperated.

 

“You’re such a romantic.” He teases affectionately. “It’s sort of disgusting, really.”

 

“So, slow?” Matt checks hesitantly, and Foggy sighs before running a gentle hand down Matt’s chest, deliberate and relaxed.

 

“Slow as you want, babe.” He agrees, and Matt beams and kisses him again.

 

Foggy’s shaking by the time Matt’s satisfied, and more than once Matt has to stop moving and pull him away from the edge with soft kisses and promises. They’re going to come _together,_ Matt tells him. Just wait a little longer. Matt’s wanted this for years, and he needs to make sure he feels _everything._

“If we’re sharing wish lists…” Foggy starts breathlessly when Matt’s finally, finally satisfied that Foggy’s slick and ready. Matt nods encouragingly.

 

“Anything.” He promises. Foggy starts to sit up, and Matt makes a startled sound and presses a hand against his chest.

 

“What—why are you getting up?” Foggy wants this, right? Matt thinks, panicked. He hasn’t changed his mind?

 

Foggy snorts and flicks his forehead.

 

“Stop with the kicked puppy face.” He commands. “I just want to be in your lap for this part.”

 

“Uh.” Matt gapes, stunned. His hold is weakened enough from the shock that Foggy manages to slip out from under him. Foggy laughs, gently tugging Matt up and towards the side of the bed.

 

“Yeah, uh.” He says, sounding greatly amused. “Matt, I’ve been climbing into your lap pretty much every day for _years,_ and tonight you are finally going to man up and do something other than _braid my hair_.”

 

“Uh.” Matt says again. His brain appears to have shut down. Lap. Foggy. Lap.

 

Foggy snorts.

 

“I think I broke you.” He mutters, and Matt feels the shift of silk as Foggy pushes himself to his feet and pulls Matt closer. “Sit. Get comfortable. This might take a while.”

 

“Oh?” Matt asks, voice a little high. He moves his legs off the bed obediently and sits. It’s a little hard to get comfortable when he can’t even quite find the strength to string a sentence together.

 

“Oh, yeah.” Foggy agrees lowly. “You want slow? We’ll go slow. And _you_ get to suffer with me this time.”

 

“Okay.” Matt agrees eagerly. Suffering sounds _really_ good right now. Foggy chuckles.

 

“Like a dog wagging its tail.” He muses fondly. “Adorable. Ready?”

 

Matt can’t help but nod quickly and enthusiastically. Like a dog wagging its tail.

 

Foggy’s careful, lowering himself down. He has to stop more than once, even with all the preparation Matt’s given him.

 

“I’m fine.” He promises when Matt asks. “Slow, remember? Just… take it slow.”

 

“Slow.” Matt agrees, running a comforting hand down Foggy’s back. “Slow is good. _You’re_ good. You’re doing so well.” He praises, awed, and Foggy whimpers a little and lowers himself more. “God, you feel perfect. Perfect, cold and sweet.”

 

Foggy’s warmer inside, just cool enough that Matt can feel the difference, soothing against Matt’s heated skin. So much better than he imagined, _perfect._

 

“You have weird kinks, Matt.” Foggy teases. “You make me sound like ice cream.”

 

Matt doesn’t answer, instead leaning forward to lick a wet stripe up Foggy’s neck, sucking a little at the point just under his jaw.

 

“Cold and sweet.” He repeats solemnly against the skin. Foggy laughs.

 

“Weird kinks.” He repeats, and then gasps when he finally makes it all the way down, resting heavy and soft in Matt’s lap. Matt pulls away from Foggy’s neck so that he can pull him into a fierce kiss.

 

“Perfect.” He breathes. “How do you feel? Okay?”

 

Foggy huffs out a short breath of laughter, and oh, Matt can _taste_ the laugh, another gift from the oh-so-wonderful Marci (slap or kiss, still not sure).

 

“Hmm, let’s see. I’m feeling… Full, fantastic, and frustrated as hell that you are not _moving_ yet.” He shifts his hips in a slow circle, and Matt moans. God. _God._ “Come on, Matt. I’m not made of glass. I actually have no idea what I _am_ made of, but it’s not glass.”

 

Matt nods, hands moving to Foggy’s hips to help raise him a little. The next time Foggy sinks back down, Matt gives a light, experimental thrust. Foggy cries out.

 

“That sounds like a good sound.” Matt murmurs thoughtfully, and does it again. Foggy whimpers, but that’s not quite loud enough, not quite what Matt wants to hear, so he snakes one hand to down to touch while he thrusts and—

 

“Matt!”

 

There it is.

 

Matt grins and does it again, moves a little harder and faster when Foggy tells him to. Foggy’s bossy, but he gives every command in a low, breathless voice that makes Matt pretty sure he’ll do _anything_ Foggy asks. When all he’s asking is for Matt to move a little more, come on, Matt, harder, _Matt,_ kiss me again?

 

Matt loves bossy.

 

“Now, Matt.” Foggy says, part command, part plea. “You said you wanted to come together, right? Please, I’m so close. You’re close too, aren’t you?”

 

“Yeah.” Matt breathes, and he was close before but when Foggy asks him in that low, breathless voice, he’s so close it _hurts_. “Okay, together.” He kisses Foggy gently. “I love you.”

 

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and he’s glad he waited, because Foggy’s beautiful when he hears it like this.

 

Foggy sobs and bites Matt’s shoulder, hard enough that Matt knows he’ll be carrying the mark for days. He clenches so tight around him when he comes that Matt follows a second later, Foggy’s name on his lips.

 

Matt’s careful helping Foggy up and getting him soft and safe back in bed. Foggy says he’s not made of glass, but that’s only because he’s made of something far more precious, and Matt needs to _protect_ it. He thinks he might look a little too worshipful when he’s running a damp towel over Foggy’s skin, kneeling like he’s in church and maybe he is. Foggy’s all of his prayers, answered.

 

Foggy huffs.

 

“I can’t believe I sweat.” He complains. “I forgot how much I hate that.” Matt hums absently and finishes, gentle and slow where Foggy’s still sensitive and wet. He cleans himself, far more quickly, and slips back into bed, pulling Foggy into his arms. “What am I even sweating?” Foggy asks, thoughtful. “I don’t even drink. Ew, is this _ectoplasm?”_

Matt laughs, licking gently at Foggy’s throat.

 

“Tastes like sweat to me.” He informs him cheerfully, and Foggy huffs.

 

“ _Ew,_ Matt.” He complains, but he pulls Matt closer anyway and returns the lick. “Actually,” He muses thoughtfully, “It’s not that bad. Salty. Not the best thing I’ve tasted tonight, but not bad.” 

 

Matt laughs again and kisses him. Foggy still tastes sweet and cold, but Matt thinks there’s a little hint of him there too, now. Lovely. Definitely the best thing Matt’s tasted tonight.

 

Foggy’s cool and heavy in his arms, and Matt feels a sense of bone-deep serenity sweep over him. Love, pure and simple.

 

“How long do you think we can stay like this?” He asks quietly. Foggy makes a curious sound, and Matt brushes a hand through his hair. “Before…”

 

_Before I can’t feel you anymore._

 

“Ah.” Foggy says, uncertain, a thread of hurt in his voice. “Is that—I can leave when I think it’s going to happen, if you don’t like feeling it. It’s okay.” Matt shakes his head, pulling him closer.

 

“No, I want to be there, right until the last second.” Matt tells him, kissing Foggy’s forehead. “Even if I’m asleep, wake me up, okay? I want to kiss you goodbye.” He smiles. “And then I’ll wait. Until I can kiss you hello again.”

 

“…Okay.” Foggy promises, and his voice is tight but so, so happy. Matt rubs at his shoulder gently.

 

“Every time, alright?” He asks softly. “I want to be there every time.”

 

“Okay, Matt.” Foggy says again, and then he gives a shuddery laugh. “Ick, I’m crying. Ectoplasm tears, that’s _gross._ I’m going to kill Marci.”

 

“Marci.” Matt repeats, a scary thought striking him. How had he forgotten this? He’d been distracted, sure, but… “Marci said she gave you a new job. What was it? It’s… you get to stay with me, right?”

 

Foggy chuckles a little darkly, reaching up to take Matt’s hand, weave their fingers together.

 

“Oh yeah.” He assures Matt. “That’s the whole point, actually. Marci’s given me the green light for being your guard dog, no strings attached. She _wants_ me to try and keep you alive. She’s not planning on making it easy.”

 

“What does _that_ mean?” Matt asks, a little alarmed. Foggy huffs and kisses his shoulder soothingly.

 

“Marci’s a cat, Matt, and I’m the mouse.”

 

 _Such a_ clever _little mouse,_ Marci had said. Matt shivers at the thought.

 

“So, what?” Matt asks, worried. “She’s going to _hunt_ you?” Cats hunt mice. They kill them. Foggy can’t die anymore, but there are worse things than death.

 

“Technically, she’s going to hunt _you.”_ Foggy corrects him. “In a manner of speaking.” When Matt tenses, Foggy kisses his shoulder again, rubbing at it gently to help Matt relax again. “Don’t worry. As ominous as it sounds, Marci likes to play with her food. She sort of hates you, sorry, but she likes me. She’ll give me a chance to win, and I’ll do it. Just like before.”

 

 _Oh, hundreds_ , Marci had said when Matt asked her how many times Foggy had saved his life. _It’s become something of a game for me._

 

“I’m so sorry.” He whispers. This isn’t fair. Foggy shouldn’t constantly have to risk his existence trying to save Matt. He shouldn’t be stuck like this. It’s not _fair._ Foggy pinches the skin at the base of Matt’s neck lightly.

 

“Hey, don’t say that.” He tells Matt, calm and kind. “Keeping you alive is now my job as well as my hobby.” He presses a smiling kiss to Matt’s lips. “I kind of love my job.”

 

“What happens if you lose?” Matt asks softly, and Foggy laughs and kisses him again.

 

“I’m not going to lose, Matt.” He says, and it’s not even a promise. It’s a statement of fact, to him. No doubt in his mind. “I’ve got you. We keep each other safe.” He nudges Matt gently, kisses his cheek, his nose, his forehead before trailing back down to his mouth, tender. “We save each other.”

 

 _Guardian angel._ Matt thinks. Stick had said it harshly, derisive, but it’s true. Foggy’s always there, watching over him, and now Matt can watch over him too. Marci’s set Foggy loose, and it was a mistake, the biggest mistake she could have made, because now he’s Matt’s, and Matt’s going to fight for him.

 

Matt’s never lost a fight in his life.

 

“I love you.” He murmurs, and Foggy smiles, soft curve against Matt’s lips, a feeling already familiar and cherished.

 

“I love you too.” Cold and sweet.

 

_Guardian angel._

 

 _Blessed._  

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I can't seem to stop killing Foggy Nelson. At least he and Matt actually get together this time! 
> 
> Should he and Matt talk about Foggy's unfortunate death? Probably, but Foggy's already cool with it and Matt probably never will be, and I didn't want to spend another 10,000 words detailing Matt's angst. A happy ending was needed.
> 
> Also, some of you may be wondering what exactly the parameters of Foggy's new upgraded form are. The answer? I have no idea! My first thought is that he has all of his senses, and he should pop up on Matt's because they're sort of wired together now. Other people probably couldn't hear or see him, but he can still move objects and bump into them. He MIGHT be able to taste food, but it wouldn't really provide any sustenance since he doesn't actually need to eat. Can he even eat it? Where would the food go when he went back to being ghost-zoned? Who knows!


End file.
